His Wicked Wish (7 page)

“Have you been gazing at my lips, Miss Swann? They can be yours to enjoy if you so desire.”

“I'd rather kiss a slimy toad.”

As Maddy glanced about the shadowy stage for something to throw at him, her eyes widened. The bids! They were scattered over the floor. She had forgotten all about them.

“Blast it!” she muttered.

She crouched down and grabbed about half of the folded papers, but the others lay beyond her reach. Hampered by the stout padding around her waist and her voluminous black skirt, she struggled to crawl on hands and knees to collect the rest.

The last one had an
H
embossed in the red seal. That must be Lord Herrington's bid. The one that interested her the most. He was a dull sort who would cause her no trouble.

As she stretched out her fingers, Lord Rowley brought his shoe down onto the paper to anchor it in place. “You won't be needing that,” he said.

“I beg your pardon,” she said heatedly, tugging in vain at the folded paper. “Move aside, you rotten varlet!”

“Only if you promise to consider
my
offer, too.”

She angled a glare up at him, resenting the way he towered over her. “I've no intention of indulging a shameless cheater. You had your chance to give me a bid and you squandered it. The auction is now officially closed.”

“It isn't over until you make your selection. And I'll wager you won't want any of those others once you have a look at mine.”

“Well, I won't read your offer, so we'll never know, will we? Now, move your blasted foot.”

When his polished black shoe remained firmly in place, Maddy yanked so hard on Lord Herrington's proposal that it ripped. To make matters worse, she lost her balance and tumbled backward, landing on her bottom with her legs akimbo and a ragged half of paper clutched in her fingers. The surprise of it knocked the breath out of her.

At once, Lord Rowley bent over her. “Are you all right, Miss Swann?”

His concerned question was marred by the suggestion of a grin at the corners of his mouth. He was so close she could see the individual black lashes around those intense green eyes. A flush spread from her core and up into her face. A flush that could only be anger—she wouldn't allow it to be anything else. “I'm perfectly fine, no thanks to you.” Maddy waved the torn piece at him. “And look what you've done, you worthless dolt!”

The viscount made no apology for the damage he'd caused. As she struggled to right herself, the precious bids clutched to her bosom, he took hold of her arm and easily hauled her to her feet. “I daresay that roll of stuffing around your middle protected you from harm.”

His reference to the disguise set her teeth on edge. It was as if he were deliberately trying to needle her, which made no sense if he hoped to procure her as his mistress.

Before she could formulate a suitable retort, he leaned closer and scrutinized her face. “Perchance, are you feeling overheated?”

“Certainly not!” The last thing she wanted was for him to presume she was burning with lust. “Why would you ask?”

“The mole on your chin appears to be melting—along with the rest of your face.”

With a small gasp, Maddy lifted her hand and touched the makeshift wart. The pads of her fingers came away gummy with flesh-colored putty. She tentatively explored her cheeks to find the same gooey mess. Dear heavens, she must look a fright.

Her gaze flashed to Lord Rowley. Naturally, the sewer rat appeared to be enjoying her plight, judging by the gleam in his eyes.

“At least now I'm getting a glimpse of the real Madelyn Swann,” he said. “It would be helpful if you were to remove the rest of the disguise, as well.”

“With great pleasure.”

Maddy scraped a sticky wad off her chin and flung it at him. He glanced down at the damage. The blob left a whitish trail down the front of his tailored, charcoal-gray coat.

Her action had a startling effect on him. For the first time, that rakish smile vanished and a thunderous expression darkened his face. His lips compressed into a thin line and his jaw hardened.

He looked fit to kill.

Alarm buried her anger. She'd gone too far this time. He was a powerfully built man and she was alone with him. Alone in this deserted theater where he could do with her as he willed.

Nevertheless, she lifted her chin and ordered, “Leave here at once, my lord. The auction is over, and I've nothing more to say to you.”

Clutching the bids in one hand, Maddy headed for the door at the back of the stage, struggling against the impulse to run for her life. She turned the knob with sticky fingers and went into the narrow corridor that led to the dressing rooms. A single lantern cast a dim, cheerless light over the old theater posters tacked to the dingy walls.

Where was Gertie? Surely the maid hadn't gone home. Surely she must be waiting in the dressing room. Unless by some charming ploy he had convinced the woman to vacate the premises …

The heavy tread of footsteps sounded behind Maddy. Her heart jerked against her tight corset. A glance back revealed Lord Rowley's dark, broad-shouldered form coming through the doorway in pursuit of her.

“Don't you dare follow me,” she snapped over her shoulder. “You aren't permitted backstage. Now get out!”

He made no response, only continued to pace after her. She swallowed a glut of fear. He was a far more formidable opponent than Lord Dunham. She had caught her cousin off guard the previous evening by striking him with the bouquet of roses. But she'd already used the element of surprise on Lord Rowley, and she had an uneasy suspicion he would not be fooled again.

Maddy quickened her steps. So did he. It occurred to her that he could have easily caught her by now, but he kept a circumspect distance. Perhaps he was toying with her. Like a lion with his prey in sight.

He must believe he had her cornered. She prayed he did not.

A welcome wedge of light spilled from her dressing room. She rushed into the small chamber and slammed the door shut. To her immense relief, Gertie was kneeling before the trunk, folding items to be packed.

“I'm so glad you're here!” Maddy uttered fervently. She tossed the bids onto her dressing table and then grabbed the single wooden chair.

“Be there somethin' wrong, dearie?” The maidservant frowned as she pushed to her feet. “Why, ye look a fright. What happened t' yer wig?”

“Never mind. It's Lord Rowley—he's coming, and he's very angry. I must bar him from entering!”

Maddy wedged the back of the chair under the door handle. Just in time.

A hard rapping sounded. “Miss Swann, let me in. I've something to give to you.”

“Go away!” she called, glowering at the wooden panel. “I won't read your proposal. As I told you, it's too late. The auction is closed.”

Gertie came to stand beside her. She gave Maddy a keen stare. “Ye ain't heard his lordship's offer yet?”

“No.” Feeling safer now in company, Maddy resorted to her earlier anger, speaking loudly enough so that he would hear out in the corridor. “He's a conceited, self-satisfied churl and I want nothing to do with him!”

Much to Maddy's shock, Gertie walked forward and moved the chair out of the way. She opened the door and bobbed a curtsy to Lord Rowley. “Beggin' yer pardon, milord. Miss Swann will indeed talk t' ye. 'Tis only polite since ye took the time t' write up a bid.”

The maid gave Maddy a chiding look, the same one she'd used when Maddy was a child and had sneaked an extra sweet.

Dumbfounded, Maddy felt as if the world had shifted on its axis. Why would Gertie take his side? Lord Rowley might be handsome—insufferably so—but how had he charmed the no-nonsense maidservant in one brief conversation at the back of the theater?

His wide shoulders and overwhelming presence filled the doorway. He had to duck his head slightly while stepping into the dressing room. The smear of putty on his lapel looked like a badge of dishonor.

As he glanced at Gertie, a silent message passed between them.

“I'll wait right outside,” the maid declared, taking the chair with her. “Holler if ye need me, miss.”

“Don't go—” Maddy objected.

But the door was already closing behind the woman. Once again, she was alone with Lord Rowley.

 

Chapter 6

The viscount strolled around the little dressing room. With great interest, he eyed the costumes that hung from hooks on the wall, the piles of folded accessories in the trunk, the chipped china pitcher on the washstand, the collection of cosmetics on the dressing table.

Maddy clenched her teeth and watched him scrutinize her private space. His presence seemed to suck the very air out of the room—that had to be why she found it difficult to draw breath into her lungs. She ought to make a dash for the door while his back was turned.

Yet curiosity rooted her in place. How had he managed to hoodwink Gertie into cooperating in his scheme? What exactly had he said to the maid?

Grabbing a rag, Maddy used it to wipe her sticky fingers. “You had no right to follow me,” she snapped. “You aren't wanted here.”

He fixed his keen gaze on her. “I followed you because I have something that belongs to you.”

“If you're referring to your bid,” she said, rubbing furiously at a spot on her thumb, “I've already said I won't take it.”

“Then perhaps you'll take this.”

A provocative smile playing on his lips, he held out the ripped half of Lord Herrington's offer. The one that had been stuck under his shoe. The one she had totally forgotten about.

She snatched it from him. “If you think to soften me, you're sadly mistaken. That phony charm won't work on me as it did on Gertie. So you may as well save your breath.”

Maddy marched to the dressing table and added the ripped piece to the other bids. Too bad she lacked the bodily strength to evict Lord Rowley. Well, she would simply ignore him. She'd pretend he wasn't even there. Eventually he would be forced to depart in frustration.

Seating herself on the stool, she pinned up her messy blond locks, securing them in a loose bun on top of her head. Then she dipped a corner of the rag into a pot of linseed oil, using it to scrub the makeup from her face. The task of removing the wrinkles kept her busy for several long minutes. All the while, she sensed Lord Rowley's nearness like an impending calamity.

From this angle, she couldn't see him in the oval mirror. Yet the fine hairs prickled at the nape of her neck. What was he doing? What if he was a madman? What if he drew a knife and murdered her?

Maybe then Gertie would be sorry for deserting her!

On the pretext of cleaning a stubborn place beside her nose, Maddy leaned forward to peer more closely into the mirror. She spied him standing to one side behind her, his shoulder propped against the wall in a relaxed pose. The filthy beast was watching her. His gaze roved over her as if he were trying to peer through the dense padding beneath her black gown.

She pivoted on the stool. “Blast you! Just go! I've already made my choice, anyway.”

“Without reading the bids? You're bluffing.”

“Actually, I'm not.”

“Who's the lucky fellow, then?”

“It's none of your concern.”

In utter disregard for her wishes, Lord Rowley sauntered closer, coming to stand by the dressing table. There, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. An enticing hint of his masculine scent drifted to her, and his nearness caused an irksome pulse in her loins.

“I did a bit of research on the men you invited to the auction,” he said. “Bachelors, all of them. You must have an aversion to engaging in an affair with a married man.”

Paying him no heed, Maddy resumed cleansing her face. It wouldn't do to admit he was right, that she could never steal another woman's husband. The very thought repelled her.

“So who
is
the chosen one?” the viscount asked. “I can't imagine you'd pick Lord Netherfield. He's too much the whiner.”

She ignored Lord Rowley. Any answer would only encourage him.

“I also very much doubt you'd favor a loudmouthed boor like Gerald Jenkins,” he mused. “Or a nefarious rake like Dunham, no matter that he's heir to a dukedom.”

Lord Rowley and her cousin had spoken to each other as Dunham had been leaving the theater. She badly wanted to ask what they had said, but restrained herself.

“No,” he went on in a speculative tone, “you'd go for a man
you
can control. A fledgling like Mr. Stanford, perhaps.”

She rubbed the last of the putty from her chin. Let Lord Rowley blather all he liked. She had the training and discipline to pretend he wasn't even there.

“The trouble is, young Stanford lacks the funds to keep you in high style. I rather doubt his offer will suffice.”

Maddy concentrated on her image in the mirror. Her skin was rosy from all the scrubbing and shiny from the linseed oil. So much the better. Maybe if Lord Rowley deemed her unattractive, he'd go away.

“That narrows the field,” he continued. “I'm guessing you'd select a dull dog who's rich enough to keep you in jewels, yet will allow you free rein to do as you please. Perhaps a scholar who spends most of his time in the library. Like the Marquess of Herrington.”

Her fingers paused ever so slightly while wiping a trace of putty from her hairline. Quickly she schooled her expression into blankness.

He leaned down suddenly, planting his hands on the edge of the dressing table. “I've guessed him, haven't I? It
is
Herrington you favor.”

Maddy thinned her lips. This time, she couldn't help but turn her head to glare at him, only to find his green eyes on level with hers. They seemed to peer into her very soul. How was it that he could read her thoughts so well?

Flustered, she jumped up from the stool. “And what if it is him? He's a marquess and a gentleman and I'll be exceedingly happy as his mistress!”